


Daddy Didn't Love Me

by dandelionweekes



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 11:44:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20778032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandelionweekes/pseuds/dandelionweekes
Summary: Inspired by the song Daddy Didn't Love Me (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DIr0I3ln7jA)It's been nine years since Richie's abusive father has passed, and he still finds him breaking down due to the physical and mental scars that he left in his wake. On a particularly hard day, Eddie is there to help him navigate through his confusing and frustrating emotions.





	Daddy Didn't Love Me

**Author's Note:**

> I reaallly fucking love this song. It's ridiculous upon first listen but it's seriously so good, and it inspired this work so...yeah! I really hope you like this. It's just something my brain threw up...I really should be doing homework but...uh. Well. Y'know. Okay, that's all!

You wouldn’t think it just looking at Richie. Mostly, you’d just think,  _ god, this kid is fucking annoying _ , but he shielded his sadness so well that people just took things at surface level. Eddie has always told him that he needed to open up to people more, and he was telling Richie that now as he stroked the other boy’s unruly hair. 

“It’s not so bad to let people in,” Eddie informed softly. Below him, Richie was sobbing into his comforter, his body shaking with emotion, and no, Eddie thought briefly, no one really expected this from the kid who refused to act his age. From the kid who still made “I fucked your mom” jokes and laughed at every ridiculous innuendo that he felt the need to point out. 

Richie didn’t reply. He simply continued to cry, dampening the fabric below him. He was breathing in and out these hot breaths, his glasses fogging up as he did so because they were smushed up right against his face (uncomfortably so.)

Eddie sighed, glancing down at his sock clad feet. He wiggled his toes for a second before he pushed himself up from his bed, patting Richie on the back as he did so. The room fell silent except for Richie’s broken sobs for a long, painstaking moment as Eddie shuffled over to his closet, pulling the doors open. He rifled through his extensive collection of books that Richie so often teased him for, pulling out a novel with a velvet red cover and gilding that spelled out the title.  _ Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.  _

It was a book that probably held far too much significance to Eddie, but he and Richie had read it in seventh grade together and had thoroughly enjoyed the curious writing and eccentric characters. Ever since, when either of the two boys was upset, the other would read from it in hopes that it would bring back comforting memories of sitting in the school library, bumping knees as they peered down at the pages, completely engrossed.

  
Eddie’s hands gripped the book gently, and he let his fingers trace the golden letters that adorned the cover. When he returned to the bed, he opened it up, the spine creaking as he did so. Then, he flipped a few pages before he began to read. 

“Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank,” he read, his fingers coming down to trace shapeless patterns on Richie’s back. His body was no longer shaking. “And of having nothing to do: once or twice she peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it.” 

Eddie’s hand slid up to tangle with Richie’s mop of dark curls. He twisted a lock around his finger, feeling the other boy relax under his touch, and that was good, because Richie had been breaking down for two hours at this point. He was glad he was wearing himself out; soon he’d be able to get a cohesive sentence out of his mouth and they’d could to talk through things, which Eddie  _ really  _ wanted to do because Richie was sort of scaring him. 

“‘And what is the use of this book?’ thought Alice, ‘without pictures or conversations?’ So she was---” 

Then, abruptly, Richie’s head flew up and his glasses, which were already sitting crookedly on his face, fell off all together. “Why  _ me _ !?” he shrieked, eyes red and puffy, tears streaming down from them. 

Eddie froze for a second before he closed the book and turned to Richie, sighing gently. He reached out to swipe a few tears from Richie’s skin with the pad of his thumb. Then, with careful hands, he slid Richie’s glasses back onto his face, staring through the lenses into his distraught eyes. “What do you mean, Rich?” 

Richie let out a long breath before he let his face fall back against the comforter on Eddie’s bed. He mumbled something long and drawn out into the fabric, but Eddie couldn’t make out the words. 

“Richie,” Eddie said firmly. 

Richie lifted his head once more, staring into Eddie’s eyes with this  _ look  _ on his face that just made Eddie want to sink into hell, because Richie was looking at him like  _ that _ and he couldn’t do anything about it. Eddie reached an arm out to tug on Richie’s shirt, letting him know that he wanted him to sit up straight. Richie complied. 

The two were silent for a moment before Richie started up again. 

“What’s wrong with me?” he asked quietly, picking at his cuticles. Honestly, he couldn’t believe that he had done this---ruined he and Eddie’s time to hang out together by breaking down. To an extent, he thought that he was past this. His father had died years ago and his foster parents were wonderful. But still, despite all these facts, Richie just couldn’t get over it. 

Eddie let his fingers brush Richie’s damp cheekbone, and a deep frowning was etching its way into his face. Richie looked so young and scared yet so old and worn at the same time. Years of fear and guilt were pooling in his wide eyes, and his head of curls was falling over his face messily. 

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Eddie’s voice came out as a sad whisper. 

“Then why didn’t he…” Richie glanced off to the side, tears threatening to spill over the rim of his eyes. He blinked, letting them fall onto his jeans and stain the denim with sadness. 

And then, oh, it all made sense. Because it was usually the same thing, and of course it was, severe childhood  _ trauma _ isn’t something that you just  _ forget  _ about. Eddie felt stupid for not realizing sooner. 

“Richie,” Eddie didn’t really know how to reply, so he settled on saying, “your father’s a shithead.” It wasn’t all that eloquent, sure, but it was true. 

Richie blinked. “Shouldn’t I just  _ move on _ ? I mean, I’m always reading stories online about people who just push forward and then do something great with their life and---” he cut himself off, frowning. “And nine years later, I’m still upset.” He felt pathetic. 

“You’re allowed to be upset.”

Richie looked at Eddie with some emotion that Eddie couldn’t place. And Eddie thought that he sort of looked more dead than alive. One of Richie’s hands drifted to his stomach, and he was ghosting his fingertips above a large scar that was sitting just under his cotton shirt. And Eddie was right, his father was a shithead.

“And you’re allowed to not do something monumental with your life.” Eddie continued, trying to convince him as best as he could. “We can just fuck around in my room forever if you want.” He offered. Richie laughed slightly, but Eddie was being serious. 

“I tell myself a lot that this all happened for a reason, but I’m having a hard time finding that reason.” 

Eddie would have a hard time finding a reason, too, because, really, there wasn’t one. Richie just got unlucky---if that’s what you could call it. 

“I don’t think you have to,” Eddie reached out to push a curl out of his face. The two boys stared at each other for a moment before Richie scooted forward and collapsed against Eddie, pressing his face against Eddie’s chest so that he could listen to the rhythmic beating of his heart. 

Eddie was taken aback a little, but he sighed at the contact and wrapped his arms tightly around Richie, letting out a tense breath. He buried his face in Richie’s head of hair, inhaling deeply before he pulled away and reached out to grab the book that had been previously discarded. He flipped it back open and began to read, picking up from where he left off.

“So she was considering in her own mind, (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid,) whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble…”


End file.
